


Real Like Logic

by PrettyArbitrary



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Boys Kissing, Empath John, Empathy, Epic Bromance, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Psychic John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:12:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the way John melts into him, mind and body, when they kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Like Logic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belovedmuerto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/gifts).
  * Inspired by [red sky at night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/585547) by [belovedmuerto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto). 



> By request of [belovedmuerto](http://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto), who wanted empath!John and kissing-fic. ^_^

It’s the way John melts into him, mind and body, when they kiss.

The body is so _shallow._ A brush of the lips, a slide of the tongue; what are they but scraps of tactile stimulation? A kiss means nothing, and the warm fuzzy glow of intimacy it engenders is only an illusion crafted of biochemical feedback. Sherlock’s done enough drugs to recognize the hollowness of their lies. He’s learned how to step into or push aside that feel-good kick as it suits him, but he’s never stupid enough to mistake it for reality.

But _John._

John is up early--earlier than he wants to be. He’s rumpled and half-bare, chilled across his back and shoulders, and grumpy because he finally fell asleep at an unholy hour. Not Sherlock’s fault, for once. The neighbours were throwing a very late, very drunken party. John is hungry, but too sulky to eat. He’ll probably end up drinking coffee on an empty stomach and then having acid. Sherlock can feel all this like he’s wearing John’s skin, feel him like it’s from the inside out.

And when Sherlock skulks up to snare his sleepy, sulky, cold John as he puts on the kettle, with just a bit of concentration he can feel the chill being drawn from John’s skin by the body heat trapped in his own dressing gown. He can feel the thrill of his own lips against the nape of John’s neck. He can feel the velvet-soft, inviting inner yielding of _yes, yes kiss me_ just before John’s body turns in his arms and flows up against Sherlock’s like a short, lithe river settling into its banks. When he turns his face up to Sherlock’s, his emotions unfurl like great radiant, invisible wings. Sherlock laces the smoke fingers of himself through the shining glory of them, and leans down to meet John’s sleepy smile, taste it, take it.

John is no illusion. John is real like logic, solid to both the corporeal and the conceptual. Sherlock gathers him up in his arms and mind in the long shadows of dawn while outside, early commuters scrape their groggy, blinkered paths to work past their windows and somehow manage to completely miss the magnificence of a natural order that has evolved to contain _John_. He’s Sherlock’s own little personal force of physics, his own living equation to hold, kiss, map, and commune with. 

He curls into the emotional space they share to feel how it feels to be _John wrapped in Sherlock_. John smiles against his collarbone, and inside them something _twists_ , till they lose track of their individual borders and then, happily, of time.


End file.
